Enchantment
by Sakon76
Summary: The past never really lets you go.  Sequel to Peace of Heart.


They'd danced all through that summer. Ahiru had remembered the basics soundly enough, but been woefully out of practice. Rue had helped her with form, though, and Mytho with precision, and by the time those two went back on tour and Gold Krone Academy reopened, Fakir had built up her endurance back up to an acceptable level. She wondered to herself what kind of dancer she might be becoming, because she'd grown enough to be able to see that the three of them had very different styles. Mytho was grace, Rue control, and Fakir power. She didn't think she was any of those things. Compared to them, she was still just an awkward duck, wobbling through the steps with her toes splayed out instead of in.

But that was all right, she supposed. What really mattered was the trying, and even if she never became anywhere near as good as the three of them, she wasn't going to give up. She had a secret dream, and diligent work was the only way to make it come true. Once upon a time, when she'd been Princess Tutu, she'd danced a pas de deux with Mytho. But she'd only ever danced a pas de deux with Fakir as herself, as Ahiru, with her paltry skill level. She wanted to dance with him as a worthy partner.

So she practiced until her feet blistered and the blisters broke. Rue had shown her how to tape her feet so that the blisters wouldn't stain her shoes, and her shoes wouldn't rub against the open sores. She practiced until she was trembling with exhaustion, morning, afternoon, and night, because she wanted this one thing more than anything else.

"Idiot," Fakir said softly as he tucked her into bed one night shortly before the term began. "Why are you pushing yourself so hard?"

"Because I want to dance with you," she replied drowsily, almost asleep already.

He was quiet for a minute, then said, "You're already my partner. You don't need to rush."

"But I can't dance well yet..." she mumbled.

His hand stroked her hair. "I don't want you crippling yourself trying."

"But Fakir..." And then she was asleep, dreaming of dancing the part of the Sugarplum Fairy.

**Enchantment**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 21st October 2006

When the Academy opened again after its summer break, Fakir returned as the assistant instructor in the dance program. This surprised no one. What raised the whispers and murmurs and set rumors flying around the school like wildfire was the fact that he brought a red-haired young woman with a foreign-sounding name with him on the first day and enrolled her in the dance program. She tested (just barely) into the intermediate class and promptly began lessons with him and Neko-sensei. She was friendly and vivacious and her name meant "duck," she said with a nervous laugh.

That laugh could turn Fakir-sensei's head from across the room, and often he wore the strangest expression on his face when it did: not his usual implacable irritation, but something soft and caring. Maybe she was a distant cousin, the more hopeful speculated. But the wiser, including Neko-sensei, shook their heads, seeing more. Fakir, they murmured, mostly pleased, was in love. And it was clear the girl was in love with him as well.

"It's a fairy tale romance!" one of Ahiru's classmates declared, smacking her fist into her palm. "A mysterious girl shows up and sweeps him off his feet, and..."

Ahiru was blushing. "You know he can hear you, Pique," she said.

"Oh, my darling Ahiru," another classmate cooed, "you must tell us all about the trials and tribulations of your love! For something so deep must have caused you so much pain to deny, and then finally admit."

"Um," Ahiru hedged. She looked back over at Fakir where he was steadying another student, his hand on the small of her back as she struggled to remain upright.

Fakir's eyes met hers across the distance, and in spite of herself, Ahiru smiled, blushing.

These things were true: he was a writer; she was his audience. He was a dance instructor; she was his student. He was a knight; she was his princess.

* * *

It surprised Fakir when one afternoon in late September there came a knock on his cabin door and he opened it to find Mytho on the other side. "Mytho?" he asked dumbly. The prince and Rue had departed over a month before, going back to touring with their troupe, promising to write regularly. "Why are you back? Is something wrong?"

"I'll ask you this right now," Mytho replied, his eyes hard. "What have you written about me?"

"About you?" Fakir shook his head. "Nothing."

"You're sure?" Mytho pressed.

"You know I wouldn't," Fakir replied. "What's this about?"

The tension and anger slowly melted from Mytho's face and posture. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I should have known you wouldn't. But it just seemed like something that might have come from your pen."

"What's happened?" Fakir asked.

"Apparently I'm the long-missing prince of this country," Mytho answered.

Fakir just looked at him, then opened the door wider. "Come in and tell me what's happened."

* * *

"We went north after we left here," Mytho started. "We were to do a command performance for the Duke of Rosenblum. I've been using Siegfried's sword as a prop for the plays. It's probably an insult to the sword and its maker, but at least that way its beauty was being used, if not its blade. The duke, though, couldn't keep his eyes off of it and me through the whole play. After we'd all taken our bows, he invited Dellgren--our troupe master--and myself to follow him on a tour of his home. Rue too, of course."

"Of course," Fakir acknowledged.

"He led us straight to an old, old portrait he had of the 'Lost Prince.' I think you might remember it--it was painted just before the Raven came." Mytho hadn't had to fake surprise, thinking to himself _My kingdom exists._ He gave a wry smile, fingering his feathery white hair. "Apparently I'm my own great-grandson. Not that I could deny it; I had Siegfried's sword, and my family have all had the mark of this hair since his day." He dropped his hand back to his lap. "What I want to know, Fakir, is how this can be my kingdom. You and I came out of a story, from a kingdom that doesn't exist in this world."

"A prince without a county and a country without a prince," the knight-writer mused. "How appropriate. My guess would be that it's still Drosselmeyer's power acting," he replied slowly. "You were always a story and real at the same time. If your kingdom was just a story at one point, it somehow became this kingdom somewhere along the way. After all, if legends spring from reality, who's to say the reverse doesn't happen?" He looked back up at Mytho. "So what will happen next, and what does Rue think of this?"

"Rue doesn't mind too much as long as we can keep performing," Mytho answered, answering the more important point first. "Fortunately ballet is an acceptable pasttime for royalty. I've been acknowledged by the kingdom's steward and the coronation is to be on New Year's Eve. Less than a week after the wedding."

Fakir smiled a little. "They're keeping to the old tradition, then."

Mytho looked questioningly at him.

"End the year as you mean to begin it," Fakir clarified.

Enlightened, Mytho nodded. "I think you might have enjoyed the scene in the council when they tried to get me to not marry Rue."

Fakir's eyes widened. "I trust you set them in their places?"

Mytho smiled. "They seemed taken aback that I'd prefer to be an itinerant performer with Rue than a king without her. They haven't called her, what was it, 'the daughter of an unknown commoner' since." In the end, they needed him far more than he needed them, and that had been the end of the matter.

Fakir's grin was wicked. But his tone was mild as he inquired "So you're going to be taking up residency in the old castle near here, then?"

Mytho nodded. "Rue is probably there now, overseeing what needs to be done to make it liveable."

Ahiru opened the front door without knocking. "Fakir, I'm--" She stopped as she saw Mytho. "Mytho?"

He smiled at the former princess. "Hello, Ahiru. I'm back."

* * *

With the acknowledgement of Mytho's royal blood, the wedding preparations had suddenly become more complicated. From a simple ceremony with only Mytho and Rue's dance troupe, Charon, Rachael and her husband, and a few of the teachers at the Academy as guests, it had grown to twelve different troupes, the entire staff and student body of the Academy, and most of the town attending. Those who weren't attending were handling the catering. Everyone wanted to witness the wedding of "the prince and princess of ballet," it seemed. The only thing that hadn't changed, as Mytho and Rue both put their foot down and drew the line for those who had taken over planning their wedding for them, was that they were each going to have only one attendant.

"After all," Rue said when that confrontation had passed, "what good is being a prima donna if I can't throw a fit now and again to have things my way?"

Ahiru laughed. "Everyone in my class is trying to get me to tell them what you're going to be wearing," she confessed. "I'm not telling them. They can find out for themselves at the ceremony!"

"We still have to add all the nobility and mayors and their wives and wealthy merchant families to the guest list," Rue sighed, deflating.

"At least you've already got the crowns," Ahiru said cheerfully. "Or are they going to make you wear different ones?"

"Why?" asked Mytho. A smile touched his eyes and mouth. "They are the crowns of this kingdom. Though I suppose I'll have to wear my father's crown now."

"Queen Rue," Ahiru said, trying out the name. She shook her head. "It sounds strange. Can I keep calling you 'Rue-chan'?"

Rue nodded. "It would seem strange if I was 'Queen Rue' to you."

Mytho suddenly smiled wickedly. "Of course, at some point there will need to be a knighting ceremony."

Fakir's eyes widened then narrowed. "No," he said flatly.

"You are a knight of this kingdom and of its crown, Fakir," Mytho rebutted.

"As a knight, I'm a failure," Fakir retorted. "If you want to do me a favor, leave me alone to be a writer and dance instructor."

Mytho shook his head. "I can't do that. Drosselmeyer's spell may have held the kingdom safe while his tale was being told, but do you think our neighbors will hesitate to exploit our weaknesses forever? I need counselors and warriors I can trust, and you're both." His eyes were hard. "I need you. Both of you."

"Me too?" Ahiru asked, surprised.

"Certainly." Mytho smiled at her. "A kingdom needs ladies of great courage as well as men."

"Mytho!" Fakir said, standing. "She's done enough. You can use me, but I won't let you use her!"

The prince looked at his former knight. "Do you really think I would?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not Tutu any more," Ahiru said even more quietly, one hand holding her pendant. "I'm not a good dancer, and it's really only because of Fakir that I'm a girl at all." Her eyes met Mytho's. "But if you need me, I'll come." She dipped a dancer's curtsy and smiled. "My prince."

"Tutu..." Mytho breathed, his eyes wide.

"Her name is Ahiru," Fakir reminded the prince.

Ahiru looked from Mytho to Fakir and held a hand out in invitation. "Won't you come too, Fakir?" she asked. "As his knight?"

Fakir sighed and gave in, taking her hand. "Fine," he said resignedly. He looked at Mytho. "I'm not giving up teaching at the Academy, though," he warned.

Mytho smiled. "I know better than to ask for that."

* * *

Fakir, Ahiru knew, didn't like anyone to see his scars. It was strange to think of a dancer being body-modest, but he was. It was actually a piece of the whole, when she considered it, fitting in with the rest of him. She couldn't remember him ever smiling at anyone, even Mytho, before one day when she'd been a duckling he rescued from his locker. He'd shown what he thought to be a small, dumb bird the gentle side that he hid away like downy feathers concealed beneath strong flight pinions. And he'd only cried, too, when he was alone. She wondered if it was his parents' deaths that had made him shut away all those things, but she didn't want to ask.

She didn't think he knew that she knew about his birthmarks, scars from another lifetime, and didn't want to tell him when she'd seen them. It was a little embarrassing, having snuck into his dorm room. What if he thought she'd peeked in on him in the shower? The thought alone was enough to turn her bright red. Because except for that one time she'd never seen them. Fakir was _always_ clothed. Mytho she'd seen half dressed any number of times, back when he was the prince without a heart, and she knew that his skin was pale and pure, unmarked by blemish or scar, which was really the way it ought to be. But Fakir was dark and imperfect, marked by tragedy, blade, and dance. She thought that Drosselmeyer, who was always too into things that hurt, would like Fakir better than any of the rest of them.

She didn't think she was like Drosselmeyer, but she liked Fakir best too.

* * *

Ahiru understood the speech of the birds. Rue almost did too. The difference between them was that Ahiru reveled in what they told her while Rue was afraid to listen. Ahiru didn't understand why, but realized that Rue had her reasons, and that for her they were probably good ones, and said so. But she still talked Rue into climbing trees and hunting through reeds to find them to chatter. It surprised Rue that the birds never attacked them or flew away.

"They know we're birds too, Rue-chan," Ahiru explained sunnily as they headed back to Fakir's house after a day of exploring. "I don't think Fakir or Mytho could get away with it."

The mention of her "father," as always, saddened Rue. "I'm not really a raven," she said, looking down at the ground. "Just a human girl raised to be a monster."

"Nn-nnn!" Ahiru disagreed, shaking her head. "You have a bird's heart. It has wings inside of it." They walked on for a few minutes before Ahiru said, in a much softer tone, "You know, Rue-chan, I asked Fakir. He said ravens are supposed to be very wise."

Rue laughed a little. "Ravens are scavengers," she said bitterly. "They feed off the flesh of the dead and rise cawing from the charnel house."

"And they have beautiful black feathers," Ahiru said, still softly.

Rue's hair was as dark as crow's feathers; her eyes were the wine-claret of raven's blood. No matter how many times Mytho told her she was beautiful, she still hated her reflection in mirrors. Vanity, she supposed, would never be among her faults. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"I think you're beautiful," Ahiru said, stopping in front of Rue and turning to face her. The tip of her index finger just rested on Rue's nose, a butterfly kiss. "Here." Her hand drifted lower, palm open and fingers splaying like a flower over Rue's heart. "And here." Ahiru's eyes were cornflower blue and earnest. "You saved the prince, Rue-chan. If you're still part raven, why not decide what part? Darkness is like fire; it can be warm and comforting as well as destructive. You love him, and he loves you. That's all that matters."

She stared at the younger girl. "Ahiru..."

Ahiru shrugged slightly. "That's what Tutu would say, anyway."

"And Tutu was always right."

"Wasn't she?" Ahiru's head tilted to one side. "That was part of the magic."

Ahiru might think it was, but Rue wasn't convinced that Tutu's magic was wholly gone from her friend. Tutu was a creation of the heart, after all--Mytho's heart, true, but what heart that loved was so different from another?--and Fakir had given Ahiru his heart. "Perhaps you're right," she said, committing only with a smile, and they walked on.

* * *

Sometimes Ahiru's words ran away like marbles and she had to chase them. This usually happened when Fakir said something she wasn't expecting, or when he was gentle to her and she realized others were watching, or when Neko-sensei criticized her dance, or when Lilie and Pique teased her about her relationship... actually, it happened a lot. She wondered why Fakir didn't get tired of her; she knew he got embarrassed by her. He blushed when it happened, or got this look of exasperation on his face. But then, she didn't know what it would be like to be in an easy relationship with him. She looked at Mytho and Rue and thought how perfect they were for one another, and never saw them yelling or having a disagreement. Sometimes, wistfully, she wondered how they managed it. With her and Fakir it seemed like it was almost always a give and take. He got frustrated with her lack of ability and she got frustrated with his lack of patience. He called her an idiot and she yelled that he was mean. He slammed the door and locked himself in his room to write, and she slammed the door and stalked out of the house to sit on the dock and wish she _was_ just a bird.

In the end, though, he opened the door and came out and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, or she opened the door and snuck in with a snack for while he was writing. They both murmured a thank you and a sorry and the hurt just melted away as they fixed whatever went wrong. She couldn't really imagine it any other way. Fakir wouldn't be _Fakir_ if the two of them saw eye-to-eye on everything. And for every time they fought, there was a make-up time. And there were those moments, in dance and elsewhere, when she managed to get something _right_ for the first time and it filled her with an uprush of happiness, and she looked over at him to say "Did you see, Fakir? I did it!?" and he was already looking at her with this softness in his eyes that made her stop and blush. The other girls in her class talked about boys undressing their bodies with their eyes, but with Fakir it was more than that. She knew that he was looking into her soul.

She'd first started to like him when she'd learned that boys could cry. She'd realized that he was actually handsome when he'd smiled at her after learning what she really was. But when he'd rescued her from the depths of despair, dancing a pas de deux with her and telling her that he'd never leave her, no matter what happened...

She'd known then that, no matter what she'd felt for Mytho, Fakir would always have her heart.

* * *

Despite the complaints and people who didn't even know them taking over Mytho and Rue's wedding and the guest list growing from tens to hundreds, things were slowly falling into place. It was to be a wedding for a fairytale prince and his princess; that was the point on which everyone involved was agreed. Mytho inspired his people's love, and anyone who had seen Rue dance couldn't help but love her as well.

The two of them still snuck away as often as possible, though, to Fakir and Ahiru's cottage and helped with the garden. Ahiru grew used to taking Rue with her on her walks where she checked on the local birds and gossiped with them.

The dressmaker who was making Rue's wedding dress had also been commissioned to make Ahiru's attendant dress, and had done up a selection of designs that the two of them leafed through and talked over while on their visiting rounds. Rue said aloud that it was probably a bit odd to ask what a heron thought of a particular flounce, but that she couldn't help but agree with her decision. Ahiru was relieved too; she would have been overwhelmed in the dress.

Mytho was going to wear royal purple, of course, and Fakir was going to stand behind him in grays and blacks, the sword of Lohengrin sheathed at his side. Rue was going to be in purest white, with swans embroidered on her dress because the white swan was the symbol of Mytho's house. Ahiru hadn't known that and wondered if Rue was teasing her, her sly side-glance not quite hiding Rue's smile.

In the end they settled on a simple dress of blue (the shade matched her eyes, Rue declared, while Ahiru couldn't help thinking it was the same color as Fakir's favorite shirt) and white flowers in Ahiru's hair. The satin slippers, suspiciously like toe shoes, were going to be blue as well, while Rue's were white. But when Ahiru brought up the subject of wedding night clothes, since she'd heard something about what the bride was supposed to wear for that, Rue blushed, said it was black and lacy, and refused to say anything more. Ahiru's observation that black looked very striking on Rue only made the blush worse.

* * *

Ahiru, Fakir mused while he and Mytho were harvesting pumpkins, was his rock.

He had first started falling for her, even though she was still in love with Mytho, when she trusted him with her biggest secret... when he realized she already knew the things about him he'd never wanted anyone to know. (A part of her always would be in love with Mytho; Fakir acknowledged that, accepted it, and set it aside. After all, so would a part of him. The prince seemed to have that effect on people.) He remembered trusting her for the first time, holding Ahiru's hand near-blindly as she led him unerringly through the underground waterways, thinking _If she wanted to..._ and knowing that she never would, and that it was not a weakness as he'd thought, but a strength.

She'd made him want to be a better knight.

He set another squash on the cool floor of the root cellar and turned to go back up the steps into the bright sun. There had always been darkness in him. These days, for the most part, it didn't bother Fakir. Sometimes when he was telling a tale he had to stop, though, back away from it, and repeat the name of his ancestor to himself, asking _Am I becoming like him?_ But the answer remained no and so he went back to his writing with a clean, if cautious, heart.

He didn't like the parts of the stories that hurt; Ahiru frequently found him crying while he wrote them. But he knew they were necessary. A festering wound must be lanced, a pained heart purged. No one wanted to read a story about "The Village Full of Happy Idiots" and so he had to allow hurt and pain and tragedy into his stories. They were the clearing of the ground to plant the seeds of happiness. But all the same he didn't like those parts.

Ahiru sometimes read over his shoulder, but more often waited for him to finish a story and asked him to read it to her. He teased her that, duck-like, she wasn't that good at reading, but she retorted that she liked hearing his stories aloud. Fakir didn't mind. They'd gotten into the habit when she _was_ still a bird, and it was comfortable to keep up. Now, though, she tended to add more commentary that made him think.

He knew that she made him a better writer, asking "But what happened to the baker and his wife?" and "Does he really love her, or does he only love who he thinks she is?", commenting sadly, "Poor giant." As a writer, it was good to have a critical audience. But more than that, though, she made him a better person. Fakir had given Mytho a name and protection, and in return Mytho had given Fakir his regard for the smallest of creatures. But Ahiru... he'd never been able to give her anything but his heart. In return, though, she'd given him laughter and the ability to smile. He could cry in front of her, too, and not feel ashamed. She'd given him the belief that he was not weak, that he was capable of making a difference. For a boy who grew up knowing his ultimate fate was to be useless, that was perhaps the greatest gift of all. But more than even that, she'd given him the sure knowledge that no matter what might happen, in spite of all their spats and artistic differences and everything else the world threw at them, there would always be one person who would never stop loving him.

Knowing that, Fakir slept soundly at night.

* * *

As a prince, Mytho was keenly aware of the difference between what he _could_ do and what he _ought_ to do. What he _could_ do was ask Fakir to write stories that kept his kingdom whole and its people safe. What he _ought_ to do was not rely on his friend's power as a crutch and take care of matters himself. It was this difference that he kept in mind as he made plans to knight his friend in this lifetime as well. Fakir was Mytho's knight; that was an irrevocable bond and would hold between the two of them if Mytho were a pauper and Fakir on the other side of the world. What Fakir was _not_ was Mytho's tool. He would ask advice of his friend, and his sword if needs ever should be, but he would never ask Fakir for his power. It would be an unfair advantage, and Mytho already knew the story of Drosselmeyer too well to ever start Fakir down that path. No, Fakir's power was to remain quiet and hidden in the shadows, away from the men and women of the world who would seduce it, use it, learn to fear it, and ultimately seek to destroy it.

Mytho couldn't think of Fakir without inevitably thinking of Ahiru as well. Both times that Mytho hadn't shattered his own heart were due to Ahiru. He always remembered that he owed his heart to her, and never failed to treat her as the princess she was, whether she wore the form of a duck, a swan, or an ordinary girl. It was her unwavering faith and hope that finally spelled an end to Drosselmeyer's cursed tale and won them all free. He didn't know yet what he might do for her, but Mytho knew that to view Ahiru as she seemed, as merely an ordinary girl, was to do her the greatest of disservices. Her ability to see into and heal the hearts of those she touched was a gift greater than all the gold in his treasury. He was determined to honor her in whatever way he could, and viewed her already as a better advisor than all the nobles and merchants who flocked to him. He was wise enough to know they all wanted things from him, and to know also that all she had ever wanted was for him to be free. It made him happy that Rue counted Ahiru as the closest friend to her heart. He knew there were still dark places in his chosen princess, and hoped that with Ahiru's help Rue would also someday fly free.

She had made Rue laugh once. Mytho had heard it. He wished desperately that he could hear that sound daily.

* * *

The first time Fakir saw Ahiru's hair unbound, he was surprised by how _much_ of it there was. He'd known it was long, of course; her braid reached to the middle of her calves. But he hadn't realized from how tightly she braided it just how thick her hair actually was. She brushed it in front of the fire they'd lit to take off the edge of the autumn chill, working her way from the ends up as he watched. It gleamed softly in the light and Fakir suddenly remembered the smooth texture of her braid in his hand as he'd pulled on it any number of times. He wondered what it felt like loose. It was a pity, he thought, that her hair was too long for a ballerina. It would be too easy for Ahiru to trip herself up and become tangled. It would always be pinned up as she danced. The image of her dancing with that copper hair unbound, however, struck him in the gut with an ache to write it, to make it into reality.

Fakir set down his quill, pushing away the urge. A woman's hair, he remembered Rachael saying once, was her glory, and if he was the only one who got to see Ahiru's hair like this, he certainly wasn't going to complain.

She looked up at him. "Fakir?" she inquired.

"I've never seen your hair undone," he replied honestly.

"Oh." Ahiru looked down at her lap. "I don't know why it's so long. Maybe Drosselmeyer thought it looked better this way, I don't know..."

"It's probably as a contrast to Tutu," Fakir told her, having an idea how his ancestor's mind worked. "No one think you were her, when your hair was so long and hers was so short."

"Oh." Ahiru's hands, which had stilled in their brushing, slowly resumed. "I kind of like it," she admitted. "It's a pain when I don't keep it in a braid, though. And it takes forever to wash."

"But it's beautiful," Fakir said.

"Um. Er. I..." Ahiru turned bright red and stared at her lap, brush stopped in her hair mid-stroke. Fakir sighed and crossed the room to sit behind her, taking the brush from her and continuing where she had stopped.

"You already know what I think," he said quietly. "Why does it fluster you when I say it?"

"Because I'm not used to it," she whispered. "I'm just a duck, and no one tells ducks they're beautiful."

"Not even their mothers?" Fakir thought he had the hang of brushing her hair. The brush slid smoothly through it, and it really did feel like heavy silk in his hand.

"I don't remember my mother," Ahiru answered.

"Even ducklings have mothers," Fakir retorted, leaning a little to the left and drawing the brush around the side of her head, gathering more hair into his hand.

"Not me."

"Don't shake your head."

"Sorry."

He sighed and gathered her hair back into his hand, setting the brush down on the floor. "I just braid this?"

"Yeah." In front of him, Ahiru's body was outlined by firelight within her linen nightgown. Fakir tried to ignore it, insisting to his fingers that they weren't clumsy as he began the braid. Her hair puddled on the floor all around them, its length making the plaiting difficult.

She was quiet as he worked, only the occasional snap from the fire breaking the silence. When he was about half-done, though, and his work finally starting to look neat, she finally spoke up. "You really think I'm beautiful?" she asked.

"Beauty isn't just the body; the prettiest faces can be masks for the ugliest hearts," Fakir answered quietly. "I've seen you sacrifice your hopes and your happiness for what's best for others. You're brave, and determined, and wise. Your body and face are lovely to look on, Ahiru, but the outer you is only a reflection of the inner you, and that's the part that matters. I thought you were beautiful even when you were a duck."

"Since when have you said I'm wise?" Ahiru challenged.

"Wise people can still be foolish," Fakir retorted with a yank on the finished part of the braid. "You often are. That doesn't mean that you don't have instincts to do the right things too." He worked for a few minutes more, then tied off the braid with a ribbon bow. "Done."

"Thank you, Fakir." She didn't move.

He fingered the tuft of her braid. It wasn't as pronounced as usual. His braid had ended up much looser than the ones she did herself. "Ahiru, how old are you?" he asked.

"Mmm..." She tilted her head back and put a finger on her lips, considering. "Fourteen or fifteen, I think." She laughed. "Which is kind of strange, because I think I'm only two as a bird. Why?"

"No reason." They had plenty of time. He was only eighteen; he could wait. There was no reason to rush.

"You never say anything for no reason," Ahiru retorted.

He was silent for a minute, then said, "I was thinking we should get married. But you're too young."

She spun to face him, her fists balled. "I am not too young!" she declared.

"According to the law, you are," he informed her. "Legally, since you don't have any parents, you're an orphan and a ward of the state."

"You're an orphan too," she pointed out.

"Charon adopted me," Fakir replied. "Also, I'm now an adult according to the law. I can do what I please."

"Rue-chan doesn't have any parents and isn't an adult either, and she and Mytho are getting married," Ahiru pointed out.

"You can marry at seventeen without the approval of a parent or guardian," Fakir said.

"Hmm. Then I'm fifteen," Ahiru decided.

"So we'll get married in two years, when you're seventeen." He smiled. "Or four."

"Do I get to pick my birthday?" she asked, turning and snuggling back into him. Her body was warm, making him suddenly conscious of how long two years' wait was going to be.

"Why not?" His was in January. Rachael had chosen a day in June to be Mytho's. "What will you pick?"

"April first," she answered immediately.

"Why that day?"

"It's the first day I know I was a girl attending the Academy." She smiled up at him.

The day Drosselmeyer had first turned her into a girl. The old man had an odd sense of humor, he thought, with that timing. "Fair enough," Fakir said with a nod.

"Ne, Fakir, how do you know all this stuff about me and the state and marriage?" Ahiru asked him, her blue eyes wide.

"Story books aren't the _only_ things I read, you know."

* * *

"And you'll become an incredible dancer and graduate, and then you and Fakir-sensei will go on tour with a ballet troupe just like Mytho-sama and Rue-sama did!" Pique planned out.

"Oh, it will all be so dramatic!" Lilie swooned. "I can see it now! All the crowds watching you! And if you should make a mistake and twist your ankle onstage, you mustn't mind at all, dear Ahiru, but just continue dancing. The show must go on, after all!"

Ahiru chuckled nervously. "We have a saying where I come from," she said, and for some reason that made the both of them gather close, wondering what her 'foreign' wisdom was going to be like. She wondered what they'd think if they knew she'd lived her whole life at a lake just outside of town. "'Never count your eggs until they're hatched'," she said proudly. She'd heard countless mother birds tell it to one another and to their husbands.

"We have that saying here too," Pique said. "I guess it's pretty universal. Where are you from, anyway, Ahiru?"

"Oh. Um." Ahiru stumbled, trying to think of an answer.

"Yes, yes," Lilie cheered. "Tell us about your homeland, Ahiru! It's shrouded in mystery."

"Oh. Eheheheh." Ahiru held her hand to the back of her head. "It's, um. There are lots of lakes there," she improvised. "Almost everyone is named for some kind of animal. Like me. I'm 'duck'."

"Is it because you were very clumsy as a child?" Lilie thrilled. She hugged Ahiru. "Oh, but you'll grow out of it someday. Don't give up hope, Ahiru!"

"You're not helping," Pique told Lilie. "And?" she asked Ahiru.

"We live outside during most of the year," Ahiru said, remembering her days as a bird on the lake. "Everyone swims a lot. We eat cress and fish and frogs sometimes, if we can catch them." She interpreted the looks her classmates were giving her. "They're really very yummy!" she defended. "You just have to, um, cook them right. And in the winter it gets cold, so we all have to move inside and tell stories by the fire. Except for a lot of... people who go south for the winter. Like birds." She laughed nervously again.

"You must miss it so much," Lilie said. "Poor Ahiru, living so far away from everyone you know."

"Not really," Ahiru said, looking down and smiling slightly as she thought of Fakir. "I... never really made a lot of friends there, and I don't remember my parents. Being here is better in a lot of ways."

Pique peeked down at her. "You're thinking of Fakir-sensei," she accused.

"Yes," Ahiru said softly, seeing no reason to lie.

Pique sighed, then put her hands on her hips. "Well," she declared, "there's no telling how many hearts you've broken. But if you're happy, Ahiru, we'll be happy for you."

"Yes!" squealed Lilie. "And if things should go wrong and you're heartbroken, we'll be here to comfort our poor, wounded Ahiru."

* * *

Fakir tried not to make trouble. But he had to admit that making Ahiru blush was one of the things he took the most pleasure in. It was very easy, sometimes. And for the most part it was innocent. He tried very hard to remember that she wasn't of age yet, and to suppress any ventures into impure territory, no matter how ready he personally might be for it, or how ready she was slowly becoming. He was, after all, a knight.

Still, when he addressed her as "princess," breath frosting in the early morning air, in a place where others could hear, it was an accident. Accidents, however, didn't stop the rumors from flying around the school (he was fairly sure it was the opposite) and by the end of the day the students were all speculating that Ahiru was an actual princess. After all, Mytho had turned out to be an actual prince, so it wasn't that unlikely in their minds.

But Fakir wasn't the one who bore the brunt of the rumors and whispers, the pointed fingers. She was. So when she got home that day he was waiting, not sure whether to be contrite or not. It all depended on her mood. Fortunately, it turned out that she was taking it with a sense of humor. Ahiru was much more mature than most of her classmates (possibly a reason they were so willing to buy the princess rumor) and so the fact they'd all started addressing her as a princess didn't phase her much.

"Lilie and Pique want to know why I don't wear a crown," she told him as she helped herself to some peas. "I told them I gave it away." There was a sparkle in her eyes. She was still a horrible liar, but Ahiru could tell the truth with a straight face any day of the week. "So they started wailing about how horrible it was that I had to flee my country in disgrace. Actually, they were very sympathetic."

"I can imagine," Fakir replied drily. His opinion of her friends wasn't the highest, but he understood how part of her wanted to be a normal girl, and if they made her feel like one, he was willing to accept that.

"Of course," Ahiru said blandly, spearing a carrot piece and bringing it to her mouth, "I did tell them you were my knight."

Ahiru, Fakir reminded himself yet again, had a keen sense of revenge.

* * *

When he considered the writer's maxim "write what you know," Fakir always wondered what he knew. He knew that the mice who lived to the left of his chimney were having another marital spat (caused, unless he was mistaken, by the husband eating the last of the sunflower seeds they had filched from the cupboard), and so he wrote about the brave husband going on a daring raid to get more seeds. Ahiru had grown and dried them to feed to her birds in the winter, so he reasoned that the mice could have some too. It was little enough price to pay for harmony in the household.

He knew swordplay as well, and wrote a story about a peasant girl who became a princess and her true love who became a pirate. The prince was evil, his henchmen dastardly, the swordsman sodden, and the giant simple. Fakir concentrated and forced his will on it, dragging in a reluctant miracle worker and his wife to make things come right. There were several duels, a death or two, a dream sequence (always a bit weak, but the princess needed it), and after it shaped to the happy ending he wanted, Fakir decided he was rather proud of the work.

He knew many kinds of magic, and so he wrote of them, of sorcerers good and witches fell and kings bright. The kings sometimes had their flaws that undid them, but Fakir always wrote of returns yet to come, of brighter times that held better understanding. The future, he wrote, was an infinitely vast and open place, where anything could happen, and would. It would all be determined through the human heart, and the human heart always kept hope locked away in itself.

Then Ahiru would lean over his shoulder and blow softly on the wet ink and tell him that dinner was ready, or that it was time to go to Charon's, or that it was late and he was going to ruin his eyes writing by only one candle, would he like her to bring in the lamp to keep him company, as she was going to sleep? And her smile was always the same, gentle and warm.

When he considered what he knew, Fakir knew that though stories must end, the characters continued on; that night was always followed by day; and that hope was at once both the most fragile emotion and the strongest.

* * *

If students bundled up and peeked in to the dance lessons room early on the weekends, they were likely to find Ahiru and Fakir dancing. This was different from the dancing they did in classes. For one thing, while Fakir was still the more experienced of the pair, he wasn't acting as a teacher. When they danced alone, he let his distance melt away and his emotions seep through into his dance. He was passionate, he was tender. He loved her very much, and it showed in each step. As for Ahiru, she was still striving, but she relaxed more when it was just the two of them. She would move with her eyes on him and a smile on her face, earnestness and affection illuminating her dance. Her heart glowed through her steps, a light, a candleflame of warmth and caring.

He was at peace, and she was happy.

In time, when the recorded music came to an end and the magic of the dance just for two faded, they would look at one another. "Do you remember when we came here looking for Mytho?" he would ask, carefully not looking at the source of the whispers and giggles.

She would giggle. "And Neko-sensei ran into the window."

Then he'd boost her up into a sudden lift, and, breathless, it would seem to all for a moment that she had wings.

* * *

They all had power, after their own fashion. Fakir could see the shape of each, understand its heart, which was after all part of _his_ power.

Mytho's power was that of the shining prince. Any action that was just, and wise, and kind, he would do, and the universe would lend its strength to him. He could summon forth that aspect that made him the prince of the story at any time, and do what must be done. It was inherent to him, and a sort of inexorable force that even Fakir's power had to bend to. The taste of it was air, clean and crisp, the wind beneath wings, the one thing without which you could not breathe.

Rue, in contrast, was like a smoky fire. She was darkness, and heat, and sometimes pain, whether her own or someone else's, Fakir could not always tell. She was also the waiting in the still of the night for the dawn to come, and something sensitive that had dark-feathered wings to cloak it. She would be able to see clearly, if she ever chose to exercise her power again. And like Mytho, she was suited to battle, if more toward attacking the evil than he was protecting the innocent.

His own power Fakir knew well, though the fact that he could not know it from the outside always made him wonder if he was seeing its true shape. It was grounding, and self-knowledge, and the ability to _see_ and _hear_ and change things. He could use a sword, it was true, but the greater power within him wielded a pen and could shift the shape of a mountain by moving a pebble at the right time. His power was constant; if the need was dire, spoken words alone would suffice for his storytelling, though they were not as firm, as irrevocable, as words committed to paper. His was the power to take things that could be, and make them into things that _were_.

Ahiru's power was the subtlest, but also ran the deepest. She had no skill with weapons and attacks; they were not her forte, but rather she carried the silence of the innocent heart that could look and see more clearly than any of them. Like a river carving gorges through the landscape, she dug down deep into the heart of anyone she encountered. She looked at them and what was crippling them, and set them free. She carried the peace of water, and the clarity of truth, and reflected beauty, and Fakir had the feeling that once she had studied enough, she could change the world through her dancing.

* * *

The more he saw of Fakir's sweetheart, Herr Katz decided, the more he approved of her. He'd been dubious in the beginning, of course... she'd come into the school with some training already, which usually meant bad habits to train out, she'd been the weakest dancer in the intermediate level, and additionally she was in a relationship with his assistant, which meant that Fakir would probably go easy on her and there would be the inevitable charge of favoritism.

To his surprise, however, she'd had relatively few bad habits. Whoever had taught her had left her with a clean sense of the basics. She was still weak, he admitted, but she worked hard and made swifter progress than any of her classmates. As for Fakir being easier on her, if anything it was the opposite. Yet the harder he pushed her the more she glowed, responding well to the challenge. She was, in fact, putting in extra hours of practice whenever the salle wasn't in use. Herr Katz approved of her initiative.

He had worried, though, that her reason for studying ballet might not be true. The first time he witnessed a fight between her and his assistant, Herr Katz thought it would be the end of her classes with him. But when he sought her out to counsel Miss Ahiru on the ways of love, she'd been in the salle once again, determinedly holding herself in an en pointe arabesque, her foot reaching nearly past her head. She'd practiced there for nearly an hour as he'd watched. Then the door had softly opened and Fakir had come in. He'd started his own practice, unrelated to hers. Slowly but surely, though, their dances had mingled, become one, apology and reassurance in each of their steps, in their mimes, in the lines of their body. He'd left then, leaving them alone, reassured.

Miss Ahiru, he'd known, wasn't studying ballet for the love of Fakir, though it was a love they shared, one through which their relationship spoke. No, she studied it for herself, for her own love of the dance.

He had never questioned her commitment again.

* * *

When Mytho made it quietly known that he was going to knight Fakir after his wedding, Fakir knew without listening the thoughts that went through the members of Mytho's court. The nobles thought disdainfully "A merchant's son?", the merchants thought disdainfully "A blacksmith's son?" and the guild heads thought disdainfully "He hasn't proven himself." They all thought he was unworthy of the honor, and that Mytho was being foolish and sentimental in his choice.

He couldn't allow them to weaken Mytho's position.

It seemed that Mytho, however, had already taken the doubters into account, as very nearly in the same breath he announced a tournament of swords. His implied expectation was clear to Fakir, who smiled very slightly and nodded in acceptance of the order.

Fakir was to win the tournament.

"I'd like your thoughts on the others in the tournament as well," Mytho said later. "There have been no knights for over a century now, and the order should be reestablished."

* * *

There weren't too many people who believed in fairy tales anymore, Ahiru thought as she carried a bowl of roasted potatoes to the table, but Charon was surely among them. Fakir's foster father had been the first to recognize the marks of Drosselmeyer's story, after all, splashed across Fakir's body. He'd been the one whose family had kept the treasure of Lohengrin's sword until one day the knight should return to wield the blade again. He'd realized who the nameless white-haired youth without a heartbeat had to be, and sheltered him along with Fakir. And he'd never had trouble accepting that the duckling (who later turned out to be a swan) his foster son spent time with had once been the girl Ahiru and also the Princess known as Tutu.

His ability to accept what "rational" people surely thought of as impossible was just one more reason Ahiru really liked Charon, she thought, smiling as she set the bowl down and surveyed the table. It was covered with bread and cheeses, meat for those who ate such things, winter greens and vegetables that were largely the bounty of Fakir's garden, a turret of soup, pats of butter, jugs of milk and buttermilk and water and wine, jellied fruits and bitter pickles. To her it looked like a feast fit for a prince. Who was coming from the shop, discussing the art of swordsmithing with Charon as Fakir and Rue came in from the kitchen, the former drying his hands on a towel.

At least, Ahiru thought bemusedly, Fakir was letting her and Rue help cook these days instead of muttering to himself about helpless, hopeless women.

They seated themselves around the table, Charon saying a brief grace before they started eating, dishes being passed, cups filled, the clinking of silverware and clattering of plates never once managing to cover the conversation. Ahiru avoided the meat platter as a matter of course; other than fish, she'd discovered, she didn't have a taste for cooked meat of any type.

"This is very good," Mytho said, indicating a dish of dressed beans.

"Rue made it," Fakir said blandly. Rue, Ahiru noted, was blushing slightly. "She's becoming a very good cook," he continued.

"It's because you're a good teacher," Rue returned the compliment.

"Everything always tastes so good here," Mytho mused. "Better than at the palace. Fakir, if you ever want a job as a chef..."

"Thank you but no," Fakir answered. "It's not that the food that tastes better, anyway; it's the company."

"Eating with family is always better than eating in state," Charon agreed.

Mytho smiled softly. "Agreed."

Ahiru looked around the table. "I never had a family before."

Fakir's fingers found their way into her hair. "Orphan duckling," he teased.

"You're an orphan too!" she retorted.

"That makes three of us," Mytho said, the curve of his mouth holding laughter.

"Four," Charon said with a laugh out loud.

"I suppose my parents may be alive somewhere," Rue mused. "If I even knew who they were."

"You don't know your parents?" Charon asked.

Rue shook her head. "The Raven stole me when I was a baby."

Charon had the strangest look on his face.

"Charon?" Fakir asked. "Is something wrong?"

The smith looked at the table, then his eyes rose again and he examined Fakir's face, then Rue's. "It seems unlikely, but then we do live among those kind of tales."

"Charon?" Mytho asked.

"Fakir," Charon asked, "do you remember what your parents told you about Claire?"

Fakir's eyes widened and his complexion paled. "Impossible," he breathed.

"Fakir?" Ahiru put her hand on his sleeve, but his eyes were fast on Rue now.

"Who's... Claire?" Rue asked, sounding almost afraid to hear the answer.

"My sister," Fakir answered slowly. "I don't even remember her; she was stolen away by ravens when she was just a baby. I wasn't even two years old then. But my parents told me about her."

Rue was pale and stricken now too. "...Me?" she whispered.

"I don't know why I didn't see it before," Charon said quietly. Rue looked at him. "You look like Maria," he explained. "Your mother. Though Fakir has more of her coloring."

Rue was trembling now. "I can't... I can't be..." she whispered, then suddenly pushed back from the table and fled.

A tumble of voices called after her: "Rue-chan!" "Rue!" "Rue-chan!" Only Fakir was silent, staring after her as she left the room.

Ahiru hesitated. She wanted to go after Rue, but obviously so did Mytho, and he was Rue's fiance. Mytho looked at her, though. "You go," he said. "I think you'll be better for her right now than I am. I'll speak with her later."

Ahiru nodded and ran after the other girl, braid tip smacking against the back of her legs with each stride.

* * *

Fakir stared at the doorframe long after both girls had left the building.

"Fakir?" Charon asked, sounding worried.

"She can't be... Rue can't be Claire, can she?" he asked, looking up at his foster father. "Everyone said she was dead."

Charon shook his head. "We never found a body."

"Fakir," Mytho said, "if anyone can find out what happened, it's you."

Fakir looked wordlessly at his Prince, then stood to go into the room that had been his while he'd lived with Charon. He'd never taken all of his possessions to the lakeshore cottage, and it was one of these that he brought back down the stairs now. It was a small portrait of himself and his parents that had been made by a traveling painter some months before their deaths. And looking at it, he thought he could see his mother in Rue. Their faces were similar, as was their hair. He'd inherited his mother's Spanish complexion, though, while Rue was pale. But Rue's fingers were long, making him remember his father's as Johann had played the violin in the evenings.

It was entirely possible that Rue was his sister.

Sitting back at the table, Fakir pushed aside his plate to make room for the paper, ink, and quill he'd brought down as well. Charon and Mytho watched as he studied the portrait for a moment, then set it down and closed his eyes, listening for the voice of the silence.

The clockwork gears moving behind the universe became clear to Fakir's sight.

"Once upon a time," he began, dipping his pen in the inkwell and writing out the beginning of the story of what had happened to his sister, "not so very long ago, there was a happy couple with two children they loved very much. The older was a son, and the younger a baby daughter..."

* * *

"Rue-chan!" Ahiru called out again, having long since lost Rue's trail and slowed to a walk. She tried to think of where Rue might have run to, but she lacked Fakir's ability to just stare into space for a moment and have the shape of the story and know where the heroine had gone. So she had to guess and hunt and when Ahiru finally _found_ Rue, the older girl was sitting beneath a tree on the bank of the river, not too far from where Princess Tutu had once returned Mytho's curiosity to him.

"Rue-chan," Ahiru said softly and sat down beside her friend, spreading the cloak she'd grabbed over both of their shoulders. There was silence for a minute, then she asked, "Why don't you want to be Fakir's sister? I mean, he can be mean and annoying sometimes, and when he gets lost in his writing he doesn't even know you're there, but really, he's not that bad."

"It's... not that," Rue said softly, gazing at the sluggish water, her crossed arms resting on drawn-up knees. "It's... every time I think I know who I am, it changes. I was Kraehe, then I was Rue, then I was Kraehe again, then I wasn't even the Raven's daughter, then I was Mytho's princess... Ahiru, who am I?" The eyes that looked at Ahiru were clouded and lost. "If I'm Fakir's sister, it means I have to change again."

"I know what it's like to be confused," Ahiru said quietly, plucking a blade of dried grass and twirling it between two fingers. "There were some days when I'd wake up and didn't know if I was Tutu, or Ahiru, or really just a duck... and then later, when I did know, I ended up not even being a duck after all but turning into a swan. And now I'm a girl again." She laughed a little, remembering the misery of uncertainty. "But I'm the same person whether I'm a bird or a girl, aren't I? It's the same with you, Rue-chan."

Rue looked back at the water. "Am I?" she asked softly. "Sometimes I think I'm just a doll, dancing whatever role I'm thrust into."

"No, you're not," Ahiru said, shaking her head. "I don't know all of who you are, but I know some. Rue-chan is quiet, and smart, and a good dancer, and loves Mytho. She's strong and passionate and seems like she's proud, but really she's just shy. She wants to do well at things so that people will like her, but she has trouble letting them love her for being her. She kind of feels like she has to earn their love. That's Rue-chan."

Rue was looking at Ahiru now, her claret eyes a little wide. Then she smiled. "If that's so," she asked, "then who is Ahiru?"

"Mmm." Ahiru leaned back and looked up at the bare branches of the tree. "Ahiru's not a very good dancer yet, but she tries really hard so that someday she will be. She's kind of clumsy and not very smart, but she likes everyone, and hopes they like her. She's happiest when her friends are happy, and unhappy when they're not, but she's accepted that she can't fix everything. She used to be someone magic, but she only has a little bit of the magic left now, and even that was a present, but it's okay. She doesn't have to be a princess to do her best."

"Ahiru is the kind of person whom everyone loves," Rue said softly.

"So is Rue-chan," Ahiru replied.

* * *

Rue tried on the thought of being Fakir's sister. Of calling him "Oniisama." Of someday having Ahiru as a sister-in-law.

Fakir had a strange, marvelous power that reordered the universe when he used it. She didn't believe she had anything similar, but it might be that the hint of that power was why the Raven had kidnapped her. She had known something her "father" never had, that she was in a story, and addressing the storyteller by name had once given her power over the story. But that had been a false power, as Kraehe had been a false perception of herself and the world, and both had ultimately failed her.

She was Drosselmeyer's great-granddaughter, just as Fakir was his great-grandson. She hoped that wherever he was the old man was enjoying all of this.

Rue imagined Fakir would be a protective brother. It was ingrained in him: protect Mytho, protect Ahiru, protect those who needed it. He would be kind, to make up for all those years they hadn't known one another to be siblings. And Rue... really wouldn't mind it. Kraehe would have hated it, of course, resented accepting an elder brother who was forced on her, feared he might take her place in her father's affections, but Rue didn't have to be Kraehe anymore.

It wasn't as easy for her as it was for Ahiru. Duck-like, Ahiru floated on the surface of the changing currents in her life. Rue was pushed about and battered by change. It was why she'd hated change so, why Mytho changing had frightened her and made her revert back to Kraehe. Stability was _peaceful_.

But change could be good, too.

Rue looked at Ahiru, sunny and bright and human again.

She closed her fingers together and drew out a raven's feather between them.

"My 'father' would hate me accepting being Fakir's sister," she said softly as she examined the glossy black sheen of the feather's surface. She smiled and looked at Ahiru again. "I think that's even more reason to do so, don't you?"

* * *

Fakir's quill ran out of words. With a soft sigh, he finished the story, signing it with two words: "The End," and a flourish. Then he looked up, at where Mytho finished reading the next-to-last page and handed it Charon. A stack of vellum rested next to Charon's elbow as the smith absently read Rue's story. Fakir looked at the thickness of the stack and raised an eyebrow, being fairly certain he hadn't brought that much paper down with him. On the other hand, he admitted, if anyone had slipped more paper beneath his pen while he was writing, he certainly wouldn't have noticed. He wordlessly handed the last page to Mytho to read and refilled his glass with water, drinking thirstily.

It was almost dark out now, he noted, and wondered how long he'd been writing. His hand was a little cramped as he flexed it, but not too badly. He refused to think about Rue's life for now, having just been immersed in her experiences for several hours. But there was no denying that she was indeed his sister Claire.

Having the queen as his sister was going to be interesting, Fakir thought with a faint ironic smile for the idea. But if it gave Rue a family... well, and she _was_ his sister. He'd always accepted Claire as being dead, so it was strange to know that she was the girl he'd partnered with in dance class so many times over the years.

Mytho handed the last page to Charon and looked at Fakir. "Brothers-in-law?" he asked with the faint tilt to his smile that meant he was finding the situation almost as ironically appropriate as Fakir.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to warn you to be good to my sister 'or else'?" Fakir asked.

"I always thought less vague threats were better, myself," Charon said. "When my sister Celeste got married, my brothers and I... well, never mind." He coughed into his hand. "This, though..." He tapped the stack of papers next to him. His eyes were considering. "I've never seen you write before, Fakir."

Fakir thought about it and realized Charon hadn't. He knew about it, of course; Fakir had told him early on. But to see... "It's just description," he said. "Unless I force my will on it... even then, it's useless most of the time," he said. Clockwork gears turned faintly behind everything in his ears; Fakir fought to ignore the sound. He hadn't altered Rue's story, hadn't forced a rewrite to make her his sister. She always had been, and neither of them had ever known.

"I wouldn't say that." Charon neatened the stack and handed it back to Fakir. "Something like this seems very useful."

Fakir held Rue's story in his hands and wondered obscurely if he should give it to her or burn it. He stood and walked to the kitchen.

"Fakir?" Charon asked.

Fakir hefted the story. "I'm burning this."

"What? But why?"

Fakir looked at the story, considering. "There are things in here no one should know about their future queen," he answered. "For us to know, it's all right. But what if some minister or maid found this and read it? They'd call for her to be burned as a witch."

Mytho nodded, understanding. "You burn most of your true stories, don't you?"

"All of them," Fakir confirmed. "I'm not Drosselmeyer; I don't say to hell with the consequences."

* * *

Mytho watched through the doorway as Fakir opened the oven door and fed the paper to the flames, one sheet at a time. It was true that Rue could rightly be accused of witchcraft; worse, a fact which he wondered if Fakir had considered, so could her brother. Rue at least could defend herself against any attackers, flying away on wings of air and darkness if needs should be; when Fakir used his power he was utterly defenseless, locked into the spell he wove until it reached completion. It would be far too easy to injure or kill him at any time, human as he was.

There was absolutely no one whom Mytho would prefer at his back in a battle than Fakir. Rue could wield a sword, it was true, but Mytho hated the thought of blood on his bride's hands. He'd known even before Fakir had written of it that the Raven had done her much damage, and such wounds were slow to heal. Fakir, though, had already won past his trauma and would stand fast against whatever he might encounter. The contrast between the siblings was marked, but their similarities were also striking.

If Rue needed Mytho's protection, so did Fakir, his once and future knight.

* * *

Fakir held the power of time and space in his hands, and he hoped that fact would never stop disturbing him. He felt Mytho's eyes on his back as he slowly fed Rue's story to the fire, but the prince's eyes could not see everything, and Fakir hoped his fear was one of the things Mytho couldn't see.

He'd changed one thing in the way Rue's story had gone.

As a child, when she'd been attacked by the Raven's anger, there had been no prince to protect her until Fakir, stricken by her fear and loneliness, had written Mytho to be there, at that time and that place. She would have loved Mytho blindly (in many ways, he reflected, she still had) if he'd not changed that one moment, but never so deeply.

Rue's story now fed cleanly into the one Fakir had already written about the defeat of the Raven, but it sickened him, knowing that he'd just played with his friends like they were marionettes. He stared at the flames and wished he could trust himself never to do it again.

* * *

Winning the tournament was not as easy as Fakir had hoped it might be, but then all things worth doing were worth nearly killing yourself for. Certainly meeting Mytho's expectations and proving himself to those who doubted him fit Fakir's definition of "worth doing."

Lohengrin's sword was an extension of his arm, and every shock that rang up the blade shivered a little more of his last life into place for Fakir. Tournaments like this hadn't been so uncommon then and Lohengrin had participated in his share of them. He hadn't won them all, of course, but Fakir was going to win this one.

Being a knight meant understanding the codes of chivalry and honor. It meant defending the defenseless and smiting the unrighteous. It meant a life-long study of weapons and tactics, an understanding of political workings and the human heart. It meant offering your loyalty where it was deserved, and never, ever straying from the vows you had made. And Fakir understood this where far too many of the young bucks and old stags he fought did not. Being a knight was not glory and riches as they thought, but hard work and study. It was battles in the mud and rain, soaking your hands in blood for the sake of a higher ideal, nights when you couldn't stand human touch, and nights when you couldn't stand to be alone. It was being worn down by fear, and anger, and grief, but nonetheless holding true to the things you stood for because if you did not, what were you? It was all this, and it was also the quiet moments when you won through everything and knew you had held fast, and laughed aloud in relief, raising your face to the sun, for the strain was lifted.

Fakir had a grave. He hadn't visited it the way he had Drosselmeyer's, but he knew it existed. Somewhere Lohengrin's corporeal body slowly rotted into the soil, while his spirit had torn free of the flesh and lingered, its task of protecting the prince unfulfilled. He was Lohengrin reborn to that purpose, just as he suspected Ahiru was Princess Tutu reborn to finish her task of restoring the prince. Individually, they'd failed the first time; only together had they set the story right.

Ahiru was in the stands nearby, watching. He could feel her presence through the shard of his heart she carried. They'd argued about her coming, of course; he hadn't wanted her to experience the violence any more than Mytho had wanted Rue to. But Ahiru had won this round, insisting that if he got hurt she needed to be there to bind his injuries. Between his bouts, Fakir glanced at her and Charon and Rachael once in a while. Hans hadn't been able to come. When he caught their eyes, all three waved encouragement at him. He caught Mytho's eye, sitting in the royal booth, as well, but the prince was carefully neutral, only the faint curve of his mouth and Fakir's long knowledge of him giving indication of his thoughts.

Fakir's gaze drifted back to the combatants before himself as he rested. He watched them, both the ones he'd already faced and those who had yet to raise blade against him. Most he thought were fairly useless for Mytho's purpose of rebuilding the Order to which they had once both belonged. But here and there a few shone like Edel's gems: an older man, proud but bright with hope for the future. A teenager younger than Fakir who fought fiercely but expended himself too quickly, hoping to catch the prince's eye and be allowed the privilege of serving. Fakir wondered what parent or guardian had allowed that one into the tournament, but found himself admitting that he _belonged_ and would do well as a knight. There were two others as well: a tall man in his late thirties, of solid build and dark expression. Fakir had found it hard to get around his excellent defense, but what impressed him more was the feeling of devotion that circled like clockwork gears around the man. He'd lost so much, Fakir found in the quickest of glances at the man's story as he'd circled too, looking for an opening, but he needed only a chance and he'd give himself entirely to Mytho. The last was more of an enigma, as the fighter hadn't once raised his helm or spoken, but there was a purity there that rang true to Fakir and somehow he knew that this one, also, would do well in service to the kingdom.

Five of them. It was so few.

It was nonetheless a beginning.

* * *

When Mytho raised the tournament's champion to his feet, he smiled warmly at his friend, proud. Fakir smiled wearily back. He had risen through the tournament and easily proven himself the best. Mytho had never doubted this result. Unfortunately for many others, though, he thought as he saw discreet pouches of coin being passed between furtive hands, they had.

The minute he released Fakir, though, the writer was set on by Ahiru with a happy cry of "Fakir!"

"Congratulations, Fakir," Mytho murmured.

"Thank you," Fakir replied. "Ahiru, stop. That hurts." But his expression, as she immediately apologized, was anything but chiding.

Mytho looked at the remaining tournament entrants, his unknowing knight-candidates, and smiled. "I would like to thank all of you for entering," he said, pitching his voice to carry, "and invite you to the feast to be held tonight. Our country is not large, and it is a wondrous thing that so many of you could come to demonstrate your prowess against our enemies at such short notice. There are things I wish to speak about with each of you, and prizes to be given at tonight's feast, not just to the champion, but to all. Until tonight, though, please make yourselves free and at ease in the palace and its grounds." And then the trumpeters signaled his departure from the jousting grounds.

It wasn't until slightly later, when the three of them were in Mytho's chambers, joined by Rue, who had spent the day in dance practice, that Mytho asked his knight's opinion of the others. Fakir was shirtless, having lost that battle with Ahiru, who was tending his wounds. Mytho had seen his former roommate's birthmarks before, when Fakir was over-tired and not his usual fastidious self, and it seemed Ahiru had as well, but Rue hadn't, and had looked shocked, biting her lip against a comment. Fortunately Fakir hadn't been facing her at the time.

"Lord Jerald of Langfell," Fakir answered immediately. "He's older, but he's also well-learned in both books and battle."

Mytho nodded. "He traveled outside the kingdom and fought in several wars when he was younger. He has experience that could be useful."

"On the other end of the spectrum, Alain Grunbow," Fakir recommended.

"He's not even sixteen," Mytho objected. "A few years, maybe, and--"

"Did you see how he was fighting?" Fakir interrupted. "More than anything he wanted you to notice him. He's young, yes, but I don't think it matters. Grab him now, set him under Sir Jerald or something if you like, but take him. He'll give you loyalty for life."

"Fakir..."

"Mytho, I knew my mind when I was younger than he was. Age is an illusion; you of all people should know that--ow! Ahiru!"

"Then don't get hurt next time," Ahiru said practically, tugging a bandage tighter around Fakir's ribs. "You could have dodged that hit. I saw it!"

"I was getting tired," Fakir grumbled.

"Then perhaps you should do more endurance training, Oniisama," Rue chimed in.

Fakir glared at her. "You spend a day battling your way through a tournament and _then_ you can tell me I need more training."

"So Alain Grunbow," Mytho said, directing the conversation back on topic. "All right. His uncle the Earl will probably agree. Who else?"

"Tanner of the Flats," Fakir answered, "and Kay Rosen."

Mytho nodded, considering. "Tanner will have the support of the Tanner's Guild," he agreed. "Kay Rosen I'd never heard of before today. But he did well."

"Third, by the listings," Fakir agreed. "I don't know who he is either."

"He comes from Apfelfold, in the north," Rue said, reading a copy of the entrant listings. "Age twenty-two. No sponsor. How did he afford his armor if he had no sponsor?"

"Family money?" Ahiru guessed, tying off the bandage. "I'm done, Fakir."

"Maybe," Fakir responded, grabbing his shirt off the bed and shrugging it back on. "I'd say most of the armor was inherited, though. It's about seventy years out of style."

"Armor comes in styles?" Rue asked.

"Ideas about what's best change over time," Fakir answered. "If you're ever in the mood, ask Charon to show you his collection. I spent a lot of time learning about armor from him, even if we almost never had to make it."

"Five knights," Mytho said, trying not to sound disappointed. He'd hoped for more, with nearly a hundred entrants in the tournament.

"And ninety-three sword arms," Fakir pointed out. "It's a beginning."

"You're not expecting war, are you, Mytho?" Ahiru asked, her eyes wide and worried.

"I hope not," Mytho answered. "But we've become exposed to the world now that Drosselmeyer's story is finished. I'd prefer to be overly cautious than not ready."

"But Fakir could fix things..." she started, then stopped. "No, that's not his job, is it?" Ahiru asked, almost to herself. Her hand was on her pendant. She smiled up at Mytho. "It's yours to make sure it doesn't go wrong to begin with."

Mytho nodded. "That's what being a prince or a king means."

* * *

Mytho remembered Lohengrin, and the day of his death. They'd been hunting the monstrous Raven together but become separated. He'd heard the familiar sound of Lohengrin's sword off to his right and run to aid his friend, arriving only in time to see their enemy tear Lohengrin in two.

He still remembered how hot the tears had been on his cheeks as he'd held his friend's body to himself and screamed denial.

He'd buried his friend and, vengeance in his heart, continued their hunt alone, until finally he sacrificed his own heart rather than let the Raven roam free any longer.

One of the reasons Mytho knew there was a merciful God was that Lohengrin was returned to him. He hadn't known the child Fakir for his friend at first, it was true, and after he understood, he hadn't cared for a very long time, just as he hadn't cared about anything else. But it was for this reason that Fakir was his most precious friend. Standing in his court, in the palace that was once his father's, Mytho looked around and thought that of that other life, that other court that he remembered, only Fakir had been given back to him.

Time had passed, and not been kind. Everyone he had known had aged and died while he wandered, heartless, beneath the spell of Drosselmeyer's tale. Without a heart he had been powerless to grow and change, unable to age with his contemporaries. He did not regret the sacrifice, but wished he'd been able to comfort his parents as they'd grown old, believing him dead. As it was, all he could do was lay flowers on their graves in the catacombs and murmur his prayers that they were happy in another place. Mytho had felt strange as he'd stood in his father's palace and his father's place for the first time, and wondered if other princes and kings had felt the same way since the beginning of time.

"Shall we?" he asked her, offering his hand to Rue.

"Yes," she replied with a small smile, taking it.

With smiles of their own, Fakir offered his hand to Ahiru and she accepted it. The doorman rapped his staff, getting the attention of the milling crowd, and announced the entrance of the prince and his lady, and the tournament champion and his companion.

The four of them led the first dance, of course. It was one of the parts of court duty that made Rue glow, and one Mytho always wished would last longer. They both loved dancing, but for Rue it was one of the few times she was truly happy. There was so little he could do to ease her fears except run from his chamber to hers when he heard her scream in the night, holding her in his arms until the shaking stopped and she fell back asleep again. If he was Fakir, he could know what she dreamt each night, but he wasn't and she never remembered enough to tell him. She had Ahiru in the afternoons and on Sundays, of course, but far too often Rue was left alone among those who didn't know anything about her.

To Mytho, she was the most precious thing in his kingdom.

After the first dance, he mingled, speaking with all the tournament entrants, pressing small bags of gold coin into each of their hands, winning their loyalty with praise and insight. To a few he spoke longer and in softer tones. Fakir would be knighted first and be the head of the Order of the Swan, but the ceremonies for the other four would not be long behind. It took him longest to find Kay Rosen, and when he did Mytho had to blink, suddenly understanding why the fighter hadn't unmasked during the tournament.

Kay Rosen was a woman.

She wore a man's white tunic and trousers, but the badge embroidered over her heart was the warrior's own, a five-petaled red rose on a black field bordered with gilt. Her red hair was cropped to her chin and she stood like a man. The rest of the ball guests gave her a wide berth, unnatural man-woman as she must seem to them. Mytho caught Fakir's eye from across the room and got an amused smile in response. Smiling himself, Mytho stepped forward to greet the knight-candidate, taking the token bag of gold from the hands of the page who followed him. "You did well today," he said softly, "woman or no."

She blinked as if startled, then gave him a brilliant, saucy smile. "I've been waiting for a king I can respect and serve," she said bluntly. "Are you going to be him?"

"I can only hope so."

* * *

Rue leaned against the balustrade outside the ballroom, catching a breath of cooler air. She'd been on her feet since the ball began, dancing with one noble or guild head or warrior after another, and no few of them seemed to have two left feet. Still, she'd been graceful and friendly and tried her best to charm them all, even those she thought were petty idiots. She kept reminding herself that if she was to be Mytho's queen she couldn't afford to make enemies.

"Ha!" Ahiru tore herself free of tangling curtains to Rue's right and fled to the safety of the patio herself. "They don't even know who I am but they all want to dance with me to be polite to Fakir," she explained to Rue.

"And half of them can't dance," Rue agreed. They shared a small laugh which was broken by a harsh caw.

Rue whirled to stare at the large raven that fluttered down to perch on the balustrade, gripping the wide marble railing awkwardly in its talons. It eyed her, then spoke in that harsh language she'd tried so hard to forget: "Greetings, Queen of Ravens."

She fell back a step. "Rue-chan?" Ahiru asked from behind her, her voice worried.

"I'm no queen of your kind," Rue denied, shaking her head.

The raven looked at her with one ruby eye, then turned its head and looked at her with the other. "You're human, it's true, and your raven father a mere usurper who killed our rightful queen. But our blood yet runs within you, and our council has met and determined that you are the most fit to rule us."

Rue's memory spun and presented her with the name of the raven who spoke to her. "You're Melchior, aren't you? You were one of Father's counsellors."

The raven nodded. "I am honored by your remembering me, my Queen."

"I am to become a queen of humans," Rue said, voice trembling. "One queen cannot rule two peoples."

"We know of your forthcoming marriage to the swan prince," Melchior agreed calmly. "It is fit that you wed a human. We have agreed, crows and ravens, that we will accept him as your consort." There was a cacophony of cawing in agreement and Rue looked up to find that the trees and statues and roof were all covered in crows and ravens, black wings folded at their sides, red eyes all watching her.

"You don't understand," she said. "I can't-- I'm not--"

Another raven fluttered down beside the first. "We know of your fears, o Queen. Your father's rule has left us all scarred. We will give you time, and we hope that you will be so kind to us as well."

"Balthazar..."

One more raven perched on the stone. "We need you, my Queen." His caws were scratchy, but his tone soft and pleading. "We are not a nation, not a people, without a queen to rule us." He looked beyond her to where Ahiru stood, worried. "We know of your friendship with this swan, and of how you have spoken with other birds as well. We need a queen who can speak with them and make treaties. We need a queen who will be kind. And though your father's daughter, you have ever been gentle to us."

"Caspar." Rue pulled herself upright. "I am human. I have a brother. I will not abandon that to go again into darkness and pain."

"That we do not ask of you," the eldest of the three counsellors said. "We ask only that you honor the blood within you."

Rue bowed her head. "Rue-chan," Ahiru said softly from behind her.

Rue raised her head, expression firm. "So long as my humanity is understood as well, I will honor that blood and be your queen."

There was an excited cawing from the rooftops, from the garden, from the darkness beyond. The three ravens swept into bows, wings opening wide. "We shall be ever at your service, my Queen," Melchior murmured. And then they were all gone, taking to the air in a rush of dark wings. On the balustrade where the three had perched remained a black ring set with a single ruby.

"Rue."

She whirled to see Mytho standing at the open doors. He looked up, watching the ravens and crows wing away. "Will you be okay?" he asked softly, eyes returning to her.

"I think so," she answered. "I couldn't just leave them alone. Not when so much of what's wrong is Father's fault."

He nodded. "I understand." He stepped forward and reached past her to take the ring from where it lay. "May I?"

She nodded and he took her right hand, sliding the raven's ring onto her ring finger. It fit as though made for her. Mytho knelt and kissed the back of that hand, looking up at her. "I'm glad," he said softly, and Rue suddenly became aware that Ahiru had slipped away at some point, leaving the two of them alone. "I'm glad that you'll have a chance to reconcile the past and make things right, for both you and them."

"So am I," she said softly as the music swelled within the adjacent ballroom.

* * *

The wedding day was bright and fair and cold. Ahiru and Fakir woke before dawn, yawning and bustling about their house, eating a quick, cold breakfast before leaving, not even bothering to light the stove since they wouldn't be back until the next day, having been given a pair of guest rooms in the castle since the festivities weren't expected to wind down until well past midnight and then the next day it would be Christmas and they'd be exchanging presents with people in town anyway... Each carried a small bundle of gifts as they left the house. Ahiru's were mostly knitting, which she'd learned a few months before. She didn't know what Fakir was giving people.

They were separated almost as soon as they reached the castle, bustled off to different rooms where the bride and groom waited. She admitted she didn't understand quite why it was important they not see one another before the wedding, since they'd seen one another every day before this one for lots of years, but Ahiru was willing to go along with tradition.

Rue looked more beautiful than ever. Maids bustled about her, brushing her hair, helping her into her dress and shoes and underthings, applying perfume to her wrists and throat, brushing color onto her mouth and cheeks. Rue ignored them all and hugged Ahiru tightly. Ahiru hugged her back. "You're the most beautiful bride ever, Rue-chan," she whispered.

"Thank you, Ahiru," Rue whispered back. "I'm so glad you're here with me." And then the two were separated and Ahiru was bustled into her gown by the maids as well, clucking and cooing over her like mother birds as they applied makeup to her face and rebraided her hair, pinning it up. The one stubborn lock that always sprang straight up defied their efforts to tame it, though, and they finally gave up.

By ten o'clock of the morning they were both ready and at the church. Fakir had come to the bride's room briefly to greet his sister and wish her the best with a soft touch of his hand to her cheek, but it was when he looked at Ahiru that his eyes had glowed. Being Rue's brother he should have been the one to walk her down the aisle, but Mytho's request had come first and so after debate Charon and Neko-sensei had both been asked to escort Rue down the aisle. Ahiru preceded them, of course, sprinkling the white petals of winter flowers down the central aisle of the packed cathedral.

Everything was just _perfect_, of course, as she'd always known it would be for Mytho and Rue's wedding. The priest droned solemn words about the responsibility of Man to God, Husband to Wife, and Parent to Child. It almost seemed like no one was breathing, the church was so silent as Ahiru accepted Rue's bouquet and Mytho took the wedding ring from Fakir. And then they kissed, and Ahiru couldn't remember ever being so happy and excited for her friends in her life. And as Fakir took her arm and led her out of the church after the bridal pair, Ahiru looked up to see the three ravens perched in the rafters and smiled conspiratorially at them.

They returned to the castle for a quick private lunch and then a public ball at which the prince and new princess would accept wedding gifts from their people. Ahiru had seen the line, and estimated that was going to take all day. As the bride and groom's attendants, however, she and Fakir were privileged to be first.

Mytho curiously unwrapped the square package that Fakir handed to him. It turned out to be a bound sheaf of handwritten pages. "Fakir, this is..."

"It's a ballet I wrote for the two of you," Fakir answered. The front page contained the title: The Swan Prince and the Raven Princess. "It's from Arthur as well--he wrote the score. It's a comedy. I thought you'd both like that best."

Rue looked up at Fakir with her wide eyes. "Fakir, thank you. I look forward to dancing it."

Fakir gave a nod and turned to Ahiru. He didn't know her gift, just as she hadn't known his. Ahiru smiled mischievously and went to the nearest window, throwing it wide open. Birds of all shapes and sizes rushed in. Many of them had come from far away, breaking their usual migration patterns for this event and her request. They filled the room and swept into the ballroom as well, perching on rafters, on statuary, on trellised greenlife. And as one their chests all swelled and they began to sing.

The musicians and guests all blinked in shock. Slowly the musicians lowered their instruments, looking at one another as if to say "We can't compete with this." Because the birds were not stupid and knew how to listen to human song as well. They would sing waltzes and reels, ballads and country dances, entertaining the prince and princess and their guests until sundown. Every bird type Ahiru knew of, and a few she didn't, were represented.

"Ahiru, this is..." Rue said as she walked back over to the prince and princess.

"Everyone wanted to do this for you when I asked," Ahiru said. "Because you're a prince and princess of birds too. I didn't let anyone out, even those of us who can't sing so well, because... well, 'if only those who sang best sang, the woods would be very silent'," she quoted bird wisdom.

"It's beautiful," Mytho said, his head tilted slightly as if to listen more closely to the music. "You must thank them for us. Thank you, Ahiru."

Ahiru put her hand to the back of her head, embarrased. "It was nothing," she murmured, and moved away to let the next in line give their gift.

It was three ravens who alighted on the arms of the twin thrones. "Highnesses," Balthazar cawed, "we bring you felicitations on your wedding day, and our gift."

"You don't need to give us a gift," Rue protested.

"Ha! Gifts are never 'needed'," Melchior replied. "That's what makes them gifts."

"We bring a gift for your consort, my Queen, that he too may understand the speech of our people," Caspar said. A single black feather floated down into Rue's hands.

"Rue?" Mytho asked, looking at the feather.

"It's so that you'll understand them," she said softly. "If you want it."

His hand rested on hers, Mytho's eyes alight. "Of course. They're your people."

Rue smiled tremulously and pressed her hand to his heart, where the feather sunk in as easily as any of the heart shards Tutu had returned to him ever had.

"It's because of that one drop of raven's blood in his heart," Fakir murmured to Ahiru, both of them watching. "That's why they'll accept him and why the spell will work."

Mytho looked up at the three ravens. "Thank you, Queen's Counsellors," he said softly, with a bow. "If ever you have need of me, I am at your service."

Cawing with pleased laughter, the three ravens took to the air.

* * *

The festivities for the wedding never really stopped but rather melded into Christmas festivities, then combined with celebrations for the coronation and the new year. Ahiru and Fakir cleaned their home thoroughly, sweeping out dust, hanging up sprigs of pine that filled the house with a wonderful scent, turning mattresses and reorganizing linens folded away in trunks. They stole a little time to go ice-skating on the frozen lake. And then, suddenly, it was time for the coronation.

They watched with what seemed like everyone who had been to the wedding as well as everyone who hadn't, as the priest led Mytho and Rue through a second set of vows, outlining their duty this time not just to one another, but to God, to their country, and to their people. There were promises made and symbolic gestures. Mytho dipped his fingers in earth, Rue in ashes. Both had river water sprinkled on their foreheads. Heavy, ornate crowns were set on their heads. Mytho was given back the sword of Siegfried, and Rue a nameless halberd known only as "the Queen's." And the priest called down blessings upon them and rose them both to their feet, turning them to face their people.

"At long last," someone said behind Ahiru, barely audible over the applause, "we have our right king on the throne, and a noble queen to rule beside him."

"I never thought I'd see this day," she heard a woman say, sobbing.

Fakir caught Ahiru's hand and squeezed it as they watched the procession go by. "And they all lived happily ever after?" she asked him.

Fakir nodded, his eyes shining. "They did."

* * *

**Author's Schism**

_As far as origins went, I felt that Rue ended up with the short end of the stick. And so I wanted to use this story to resolve that, as well as to define the relationship between her and Fakir, as they're the only ones who I felt the series never got a handle on. They interacted, but there was no connection to one another, not friends, not enemies, nothing... I also wanted to clarify at least to myself whether her name is really "Claire," from the ballet The Nutcracker, or "Kraehe," which in German means "crow." It ended up, here at least, that Kraehe is a crow's rasping of her name. So she's both. I also felt that the end of the series completely brushed off her trauma. Loving and being loved is wonderful, yes, but it's not a magic cure-all for everything that's come before. That takes time and work and accepting responsibility as well as inability to change things._

_I plead guilty to many references in this story. First, yes, Fakir's garden only grows fairy-tale significant greenery. Thus, in Peace of Heart, rampion and beans, and here, pumpkins. The stories he writes are Into The Woods, The Princess Bride, and Le Morte d'Arthur. Kay Rosen surprised me by turning out to be a visual reference to Alanna of Trebond, featured in many of the books of Tamora Pierce, who I've been reading since childhood. The ballroom scene contains a bit of Cinderella; the Queen's Counsellors are references to the Three Wise Kings, and the coronation scene was inspired by Katherine Blake's The Interior Life. And the full version of Ahiru's quotation is "Use what talents you possess. The woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those who sang best," said by Henry Van Dyke._


End file.
